Some of us don’t fall apart loudly.
We still wake up when the alarm goes off.
We answer emails, return calls, pay the bills.
We do the groceries, meet deadlines, show up on time.
We smile. We make small talk. We keep the peace.
To the outside world, we look fine — maybe even successful.
But inside, we’re unraveling.
There´s a kind of depression that doesn’t stop you from functioning.
It lets you keep going — that’s the cruel trick of it.
You can live with it for years and no one will know.
You might not even fully realize it yourself, because you’ve learned how to keep moving no matter what.
It’s not always crying on the floor. Sometimes it’s sitting in a meeting, nodding along,
while your thoughts are somewhere far away —
dark, heavy, and relentless.
It’s making dinner while your mind is sinking.
It’s laughing at a joke and then wondering how you pulled it off.
You look okay.
You work.
You manage things.
You take care of everyone.
But deep down, you're carrying a sadness that has no name.
A weight that no one sees.
A version of yourself that’s quietly screaming to be heard.
This is the loneliness of functional depression — when you’re surrounded by people, but completely alone inside.
When you want someone to notice, but you don’t know how to say it out loud.
When you’re tired, not from work or life, but from pretending every day that you’re okay.
But the truth is, and I know, these sentences are so easy to hear but so hard to accept:
You are not alone with it.
You don’t need to be broken to ask for help.
You don’t need to fall apart to deserve support.
You can be high-functioning and deeply struggling at the same time.
That doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human.
You don’t always need to explain it.
You don’t need permission to feel what you feel.
You just need one small opening — one little “I am not okay” - a moment of honesty with yourself, or just one person you trust.
Sometimes healing starts with the softest whisper: “I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.”
And that’s enough to begin.
xx baj.